


Lost and Found

by Hoodoo



Series: The Long Arm of the Law [1]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Being Lost, Citadel of Ricks, Comfort, F/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-23 13:45:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13191339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: Your Rick, irresponsible and blind drunk, leaves you stranded at the Citadel. As you can imagine, that's not a good thing. Luckily, not all Ricks are created equal.





	1. Story

**Author's Note:**

> For anon prompt: Could you write a Cop Rick story where the reader gets left on the Citadel by their own irresponsible Rick & she’s left wondering around trying not to be killed by the insanity that it is? He takes her home because there’s not a better place, and they share some fluffy moments. Thank yoooooooou! I just love Cop Rick.

“Goddamn it!” you swear loudly, not as much to yourself as you would like. 

Rick left you. _Left you._ He was drunk—drunker than most times—and he’d shown up, grabbed you without any regard to what the hell you were doing (brushing your teeth) or your state of dress (in a paper-thin tee-shirt, no bra, and ratty sweat shorts), and with even less explanation, shot a portal in your bathroom wall and pulled you through.

“Seriously, Rick? What the hell?” you demanded when you stumbled out behind him into an alleyway in an unknown city. “I was getting ready for bed! And then you just show up, and drag me here . . . where are we? What is going on?”

“Ba-babe. I gotta, I needed you to-to come with me. Morty’s-Morty’s—he’s out, and didn’t want me to b-b-bother him, so . . .”

He let the implication hang in the air between you, expectantly.

You stare him down. Usually that doesn’t work, but the amount of alcohol in his bloodstream must have gotten through the gate that guilt is held behind in his brain.

“I’m sorry! Babe, babe, I’m sorry!” he apologizes. With actual tears in his eyes, but you’re not buying it. “I just needed-I needed—“

The rest of his excuse is never revealed; instead he bent at the waist and puked. 

“Jesus! Rick!” you’d cried, jumping out of the way of the splatter and mostly succeeding. 

“Babe-babe, you’re right, I sh-shouldn’t’ve brought you here. I-I-I’ll take you home—“ Rick pulled out his portal gun and took aim, then another heave surprised him and he regurgitated on his hand, dropping the gun at the same time. The bulb shattered on impact with the asphalt. 

“Oh shit,” he muttered, wiping vomit from his lower lip to his coat sleeve.

“NO SHIT OH SHIT!” you yelled. “Where are we? How are we going to get home?! I don’t understand anything that’s going on here, Rick, and I am _not_ happy about it—“

“Shh, shh, babe, I got-I got this,” Rick told you, in a way that you guessed was supposed to be soothing. It wasn’t. He knelt and gathered up the pieces of his destroyed portal gun. “You just stay here. Right here. I know this guy, here-right here and he’ll set me up quick with a new gun. Just needs a replacement part, and I promise, I promise I’ll take you home. Okay? Okay babe?”

You didn’t really have any choice but to agree. 

“Five minutes, babe. Gimme f-five minutes!” he promised, and disappeared down the street.

Five minutes turned to ten, turned to twenty turned to you don’t know how long. Why didn’t you go with him? Why did you let him leave you, cold and more than a little bit freaked out, in this grimy alleyway in who knows where? What the hell was wrong with you? You should have followed him, should have demanded more information. Maybe you should have never let Rick Sanchez into your life . . .

Would’ve, could’ve, should’ve, 

_Didn’t._

The gravity of this crazy situation snuck up on you, and suddenly, you were crying. 

“Hey—“ Rick said, from the mouth of the alleyway.

Oh thank god. He was back! He sounded less drunk, so that was a good thing! Sniffling to try and control your sobs, you stumbled toward him.

Out of the dark alley, onto the sidewalk into better lighting, it suddenly, oddly, occurs to you that this is not Rick. Well, it is Rick, but not the Rick who’d vomited on himself. This Rick was wearing denim jeans and a shirt with sweat stains in the armpits. And across the street you can see a hole-in-the-wall diner, with a Rick wearing a stained apron serving other Ricks. A Rick zipped passed you on a bike, did a double-take that made his front tire wobble, and brought himself to a stop with a skid.

What the hell? What kind of hallucination was this? Did you hit your head portalling?

“Hey, sexy,” the Rick who’d called you out of the alley said. “Where’d you come from?”

“I, uh . . .” 

He sidled up to you. He smelled like a locker room.

“Eager beaver, huh?” he asked, reading the words on your t-shirt. 

What possessed you to wear this shirt with those words and a cute little cartoon beaver on it? Oh, because you were _getting ready for bed,_ before Rick popped in and completely fucked over your night.

“I-I like the sounds of that—“ Sweaty Rick said, reaching for you.

You could barely wrap your head around what was going on and your tears dried up. 

“Don’t touch me!” you screech, and brandish the only weapon you have in your hand: your toothbrush. That’ll show him.

As expected, he laughs. In the way of an inevitable on-coming accident, everything seems to slow down enough for you to see it. Bike Rick called something out—something about reporting you to the Council? Whatever _that_ means—and Ricks from the diner are looking out the window now. A few of them are out of their seats and coming outside, while Sweaty Rick batted your toothbrush away and grabbed your wrist at the same time.

Sweaty Rick pulled you up close to him. “You come with me, baby, and we’ll see how eager that beaver is,” he chuckled next to your ear.

Now your attention dropped to just him and you. Bike Rick said something else, but you can’t hear it over the blood pounding in your ears. The diner Ricks swarm in too, and you can’t tell if their intentions are good or foul. From their laughter, your gut tells you it’s not good.

You shriek again and try to get away from Sweaty Rick, but he’s too strong. Your struggle made him laugh again, and he planted a kiss on the side of your mouth. 

Then, unexpectedly, a hand grabs him by the ear and twists. Sweaty Rick howled at the pain, dropping your arm to try and swing at whoever is accosting him. The unknown person clouted him smartly on both ears with cupped hands, and Sweaty Rick dropped to his knees on the pavement, recoiling in agony.

It happened so fast you couldn’t respond, and stand frozen in shock.

“Get out of here! I will have you all arrested for loitering and disturbing the peace!” a new Rick snarled to the gathered crowd of Ricks. 

“Oh yeah?” one called. 

_“Yeah,”_ he snapped back. He displayed something in his hand, holding it up for the crowd to see but you can’t. “And if that doesn’t convince you—“

He lifts his jacket to showcase a gun—a real gun, not a portal gun—is holstered there.

The crowd mutters.

“Get. LOST.”

Still muttering, nevertheless they begin to disperse. The Bike Rick stared hard at you before pedaling off. Even Sweaty Rick tried to scramble to his feet to get away. One of the others helped him up, and you hear someone say not under their breath how power hungry and outta control Citadel cops are. 

The new Rick watched them go with his back to you. When the rest are on their way, he turned to you. He puts whatever he showed them—it was a badge, you realize, back into his pocket.

“You!” he said harshly. “What in the _hell_ are you doing here? What’s your dimension? Where’s your Rick?”

Your what and your what? You try to keep up. “My . . . Rick?” 

“Yes, _your Rick,”_ he repeated. Then, taking in the state of you, swollen eyed, pyjama’ed, and still holding your toothbrush like it’s a lifeline, his strict expression softened. He rubbed his face. “Jesus. You’re really lost, aren’t you?”

You wanted to say that you weren’t lost, that this was just a dream, a dream, you were in bed and dreaming a weird, weird dream, but you know that isn’t the case. This is real, and Rick, the Rick you know, left you here in a place where everyone is a Rick—your mind continued to try to work the angles and comprehend it—but it is overwhelming.

Your tears start again, because this Rick is right.

“Hey now,” he said. “Hey. Let’s figure this out, okay?”

⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂

He told you his name was Rick. You barely hold back a snort of sarcasm at that reveal; he was helping you, after all! He asked your name. He told you he’s a Citadel cop, just off a shift that was supposed to have been twelve hours but lasted sixteen. He told you he should take you back to the station, or to a Council guard, but he was exhausted and the amount of paperwork he’d have to fill out by taking you someplace was _not_ something he wanted to deal with right now. 

“The station’s like f-fifty blocks from here. My place is the next street over,” Cop Rick said. You got the impression he was mostly just thinking out loud. When he turned his gaze directly on you, you knew you were right. “Listen. You look cold. Come to my place, I’ll put you up for the night, then tomorrow, we’ll go down to the local Council building and sort this mess out. Okay?”

You want to be suspicious, but you are freezing and confused. Hoping you’re not making a mistake, you agree.

“Good,” Cop Rick said to you, smiling. “Come on. You’re l-l-lucky I had to stay late at work tonight, so I was passing by. Ricks . . . well. Lots of them are, uh, animals. We don’t-there’s not many outsiders that sh-show up at the Citadel. It’s really, well, not _forbidden,_ technically, but it’s really frowned on . . .”

You read between the lines that he thought “your Rick” was an idiot.

He keeps up an innocuous commentary until he ushered you to his apartment. Inside, it is a one room studio: small, spartan, and tidy.

Now that you’re inside and the door is locked behind the two of you, he seemed nervous. “Here, uh, let me find you something for you to wear. You still look cold. I don’t think I have anything that will fit you—have a seat, anywhere—“

He bustled to the closet and hung up his jacket and the holster while you put your toothbrush on the counter of the kitchenette and go to the couch. Couch? It’s his bed. There’s nowhere else, so you sit gingerly on the edge of it.

Rick followed you and apologized that he didn’t have anything, not even an old lab coat for you to cover yourself with. He offered a thin blanket, and doesn’t stare too much at your chest as you wrap it around yourself.

“Hungry? I don’t have much—“

“I’m fine, thank you,” you interrupted him. “But don’t let me stop you, you said you just got off your shift . . .”

“I ate on my way home.”

“Oh.”

You sit in silence, and he stood in silence too. Finally, because the awkwardness is threatening to smother you, you tell him, 

“Oh! Thank you! I should have thanked you before now! It’s just . . . everything is so _weird . . .”_

Rick shrugged uncomfortably, then winced and grabbed at his right shoulder. 

“Are you okay?” you asked, alarmed.

He grimaced. “Y-yeah. Old wound. Flares up every once in a while. I must have aggravated it when I took that Rick out. The one who had his hand on you.”

Before you can think about what you’re doing, you’re on your feet, reaching for him “Here, let me help . . .”

He tried to slide away from your hands. “No, I’m f-fine—“

You don’t let him dodge and take his shoulder. Your fingers find a raised scar there, plus knots that have to be painful. 

“Sit down,” you told him, and—a little to your surprise—he obeys.

Without telling him what you’re going to do, you start massaging the kinks out of the muscle.

Rick winced. Sitting on his mattress, his posture was tense and tight, until under the deep pressure you applied to him, he loosened. In a chain reaction, his back hunched, his shoulder dropped, and his head fell forward with a groan.

It took a little bit of time, but your fingers worked the pain out of his shoulder. He is slack and relaxed by the end, and when you finally stop, it takes him a second to pick his head up again. During the massage you’d eased back onto the bed with him, and he twists a little to look at you. The blanket he’d provided had slipped off, and his gaze darted down your front. You’re aware of how thin your shirt is, and how much it doesn’t do to hide your breasts and nipples. 

“W-wow,” he murmurs. “Your Rick is lucky.”

Is he? Your Rick never lets you help him like that. He doesn’t really like you to touch him unless he initiates it. You laugh uncomfortably.

Cop Rick seemed to get the wrong idea about your laugh. “Sorry. That was wrong—inappropriate of me to say.”

“N-no,” you stuttered in return. “It was nice.”

He looked like he wanted to contradict you, but held his tongue. You’re still sitting close to him, with one leg on the floor and the other curled and pressed against him. Too close? You can feel heat coming off of him. Yeah. Too close. You should move away; why aren’t you moving away?

Instead, you continue, “It was the least I could do, you saved me from—well . . .” You let your sentence drift off. He knew.

“Doing my job,” he replied.

He shifted. He’s facing you more directly now. His eyes flicked down you again, but you can’t blame him. You’re practically pressed against him, and you still haven’t moved away.

“Thank you,” you told him again. You have to cock your head a little, so your nose isn’t touching his. 

He doesn’t move away either.

“I d-don’t want you to think,” he mumbled, “that you-that you need to do this—whatever you think you need to do. It’s my job, I’m a cop—“

You absorbed the last of his sentence by covering his mouth with yours. Rick jerked a little; even though it was obvious you were going to kiss him it still took him by surprise. His lips are soft, not dry, and don’t taste of alcohol like you’re accustomed to with “your Rick.” The kiss waxed and waned organically, and when you have to pause for air, he strained towards you a bit.

His hands, so familiar but so different because they weren’t pinchy, slipped up your waist to your breasts. Cupping them, he ran his thumbs over your nipples, which tightened and peaked under the thin fabric of your shirt. When he applied slightly heavier pressure them, you gasped.

You catch the grin that crossed his face, then Rick pushed forward and found your mouth again. His tongue slipped passed your lips, lapping at yours and drawing you in. One of your hands tangled itself in his hair and the other found a resting spot on his chest, over his heart. He groaned a little as your fingers dug into his pec.

Abruptly he moved his hands from your breasts to take your jaw. He held you tightly, as if he’s afraid you’re going to pull away or disappear while the kiss deepened. You make a needy little sound in your throat and he backed off for a second. His pupils were blown and his breath came in little pants.

“Rick . . .“ you said, quietly. There is a note of desperation in your voice.

He licked his lips and you tightened your fingers over his heart again. “I . . . uh . . .”

You don’t let him finish whatever he tried to say. With a swift movement, you pulled your shirt over your head.

“Oh!” he said, softly, with more surprise than you’d expected. “I . . .”

Since he seemed more frozen than not, you take his hands and put them back on your tits, using yours to demonstrate squeezing them. When he still seemed immobile, you focus more on your nipples, bringing them back to hardness.

“Rick, please—“

“Uh, I-I . . . listen, listen—I don’t think, I mean, I think you’ve had a difficult situation, and maybe you think you have to do this but you don’t, you don’t have to do this—“ he babbled.

“I don’t think I _have_ to do this. I _want_ to,” you interrupted. It wasn’t a lie.

“—you’re not thinking s-straight, being lost at the Citadel, it’s scary and adrenaline can feel like arousal whether or not it was due to a fright or intimacy so we don’t, I don’t think we should do something you might regret—“

When Rick’s prattling took on a scientific explanation like that, even though you could plainly see the front of his trousers tented above an erection, you could sense he was through. You don’t argue.

“Hey, hey,” you soothe. Scooping your shirt back up off the ground, you slipped it back on smoothly. “Rick, hey. It’s cool. Okay? It’s okay. I’m sorry.”

Incredibly, he seemed more dejected when you apologized. “Don’t say that. Unless-unless you’re sorry that it happened? I’m sorry—“

You cut him off. “I’m not sorry I kissed you, Rick! I’m sorry that I expected it to go further!”

He searched your face, decided you were sincere, and relaxed an iota. “You expected it to go further-you expected more from a Rick.”

With a start, you realized this was true. It came crashing back that you weren’t on Earth now, and this wasn’t someone you knew. “Your Rick” wouldn’t have stopped when you voluntarily removed your shirt. 

“Sorry,” he said again, like it was a mantra. Then: “A-and . . . I know this’ll be mixed signals and all, but . . . can I kiss you again?”

He looked so eager but apprehensive a smile crossed your face. He can see it’s a real grin because it reached your eyes, and returned it, then dipped in for the kiss he asked for.

When was the last time you had a sweet make-out session that didn’t end in some triple-x action? 

But that’s what this is, kissing and petting and panting into each other’s mouths. Rick was gentle and a little bit hesitant, and you allowed him to dictate how intense it got. He never became pushy or demanding, although he felt you up again. He seemed fascinated by your tits, kneading them and gently pinching your nipples. Your little gasps when he did encouraged him, made him smile.

Finally, though, playtime was over. You broke another kiss with a yawn and apologized as he caught it too. 

“I have to get some sleep,” you told him.

“Oh! Right! Of c-course,” he replied. “You take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“What? No,” you protested. “This is your place and you worked a stupid long shift. I’ll sleep on the floor—“

“No.”

With a coy smile, you suggested, “Then . . . sleep on the bed with me?” 

Just like the first kiss, this surprised him. “Oh no, no, no, it’s too small, neither of us will get any sleep—“

When you grinned at Rick’s choice of words, it dawned on him what he insinuated. A grin split his face too, and he rubbed the back of his neck. 

“I’m sleeping on the floor. You get the bed. That’s that,” he said with a finality that sounded much more like “your Rick” than not. With the tone, you knew from experience you weren’t winning this argument.

He took a blanket; you insisted he take the pillow too. Then he settled into a spot on the floor that, amazingly for the size of the place, was out of reach. With a couple of good-nights and a promise to sort the whole situation out in the morning, he hit the remote for the lights. There was a realization that snuck up on you that you were sleeping over at some virtual stranger’s apartment, but before it could worry you too much, you fell asleep.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂

Cop Rick kept his promise. Bright and early, he took you to the nearest Council station. He let you keep the blanket wrapped tightly around yourself. You didn’t miss him grabbing his badge and buckling his holster on as well before taking you out on the street.

Even after the events of the previous night, it was _bizarre_ to be in a futuristic, gilded city where the population consisted of Ricks. You caught sight of some Morties too. Any of them who noticed you couldn’t seem to help and stare. Morties were slack-jawed; Ricks reactions ranged from indifference to lecherous comments to outright hostility. Cop Rick kept one hand on his gun and the other on your elbow, escorting you through the city.

At the Council station, surrounded by white-uniformed guards, Cop Rick explained your situation. 

After hearing it—and glaring at you, like it was your fault you were here—one leaned back and yelled, “Hey Rick! We still got that drunk in the tank?”

Fortuitously, “your Rick” stumbled to this very station. The guards roused him and brought him out; he was hungover and stinking. He semi-perked up when his bleary eyes found you.

“Where were you?!” he snapped, then grabbed his own head. A headache was ricocheting through his skull, you knew, but that didn’t stop him. “I l-l-leave you alone for _five fucking minutes_ and you wander off like this is a goddamn _picnic?!”_

He stomped over towards you.

From the corner of your eye, you can see that Cop Rick straightened to his full height as he took in the vomit stained sleeve, the deep bags under Rick’s eyes, and the spittle that sprayed from his lips. His eyes narrowed; his expression was similar to the one he wore dispersing the crowd of Ricks. 

“Hey!” a Council guard said before “your Rick” can grab you. “You gotta pay your fucking fines, Rick, before you take her outta here!”

With a scowl, “your Rick” spun back to the desk.

Blandly, the guard started listing the charges. “One: bringing an unregistered, unlicensed person here. Two: attempting to purchase bootleg portal fluid _and_ the necessary components to repair your gun, _without_ registering your broken gun with the proper department. Three—now, this is the least of them—extreme public intoxication—“

While “your Rick” started arguing against their treatment of him, Cop Rick takes your elbow again.

“Here,” he said, keeping an eye on “your Rick” and producing a business card and handing it to you. It read: Officer Rick Sanchez, dimension D-598, Citadel Police. “This is me. I don’t get off the Citadel much—I don’t have a permit for a portal gun—but keep this, okay?”

“Your Rick’s” voice got higher pitched as he continued to argue.

The Council guard raised his voice too, and since he wasn’t hungover, his tone carried much more authority. “Rick Sanchez, dimension H-122a, do you understand the charges as they’ve been recited to you? The total of your fine is—”

Something pinged in your brain. While “your Rick” sputtered and quarreled, you unobtrusively grabbed a pen off the guard’s desk. Quickly scribbling on the back of the card, you return it to Cop Rick.

“My address and dimension?” you told him, lifting the end of the word to make it more a query than a statement.

A swift smile lifted the corners of Cop Rick’s lips. He accepted the card and slipped it back into his pocket.

“Your Rick” finally gave up and, still bitching, paid his fines. Done, he spun back to you.

“Let’s fucking _go,”_ he demanded, grabbing your wrist. 

You don’t even have time to return the blanket Cop Rick gave you before “your Rick” yanked you to the portal he conjured in the wall of the station. He pulled too hard; it bruised your arm and you yelped a little. You see a look of concern flit over Cop Rick’s face, then you’re swallowed by the undulating greens and yellows and you’re gone.

_fin._


	2. Artwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artwork based on my story! *blushes*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends, I have been humbled by ricksanchezbae's talent and generosity! Find them at ricksanchezbae.tumblr.com and help me sing their praises!


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